Eat, Drink and Be Wary

by Tamar Myers

  “You can be sure of that, dear.” I hugged her again. A wiser Magdalena would have turned around and rushed right back to the hospital—Nurse Dudley or no—and demanded to have her lips sewn shut.

  Chapter Twenty

  Arthur Strump’s Seafood Crepes

  Crepes

  1 cup flour

  3 eggs, well beaten

  1½ cups milk

  ½ teaspoon salt

  1 tablespoon melted butter oil for frying

  Sift together flour and salt. Add beaten eggs, milk, and melted butter. Beat thoroughly. Coat preheated skillet bottom with thin layer of cooking oil. Pour small amount of batter into pan, tilting the pan in all directions so batter will spread thin. Cook for approximately two minutes or until brown. Turn and cook reverse side.

  Seafood filling

  10 medium or five large shrimp, cooked, shelled

  ½ cup cooked monkfish, flaked

  2 hard-boiled eggs, coarsely chopped

  3 tablespoons butter

  3 tablespoons flour

  3 tablespoons freshly grated Parmesan cheese

  2 tablespoons dry cooking sherry

  ¼ teaspoon salt

  ¼ teaspoon ground nutmeg

  dash cayenne pepper

  Melt butter in sauce pan over medium heat. Stir in flour, salt, nutmeg, and pepper. Stir until bubbly. Gradually add milk and stir constantly until mixture is thick and smooth. Stir in sherry. Fold in shrimp, monkfish, and eggs. Remove from heat. Spoon filling (approximately 2 tablespoons) on to each crepe. Roll and fold edges under as with tortillas. Place crepes fold-side down in greased baking dish. Cover with remaining sauce and sprinkle with Parmesan cheese. Bake at 350 for 15 minutes or until cheese melts or place briefly under broiler.

  Serves 5.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  I found Freni in the kitchen, along with Alma. They were the only two souls about.

  I sidled up to Freni. “Where is everybody?”

  “Ach, that Melvin changed his mind and had everyone go to the station. He said he wanted the jail cells handy when the murderer confessed.”

  “Even Susannah?”

  “Yah, but she should be back soon. She was the next one on his list, after Alma.”

  I looked around my normally tidy kitchen. There seemed to be an unusually large number of pots, pans, and utensils scattered about. There was definitely more going on than just lunch preparations.

  “What’s all this?” I asked. “Cooking for the wake?”

  “Shhh,” Freni said, pressing a stubby finger to her colorless lips. “Alma’s trying to concentrate. It’s her cooking day, and she thinks she might be able to submit her sample after just one try.”

  “What? Don’t be ridiculous! There isn’t any more contest. Mr. Mitchell is dead, remember?”

  Freni thrust her ample chest forward and drew back her head, in what is her classic confrontational stance. History has shown me that this is not the time to have a reasonable conversation with her. Unfortunately I am a slow learner.

  “We have contracts,” she said through pursed lips.

  “Contracts? What contracts?”

  “We all signed contracts when we entered the contest. The contracts say that the contest will be held no matter what.”

  “Even if the contest’s organizer is murdered?”

  “Yah, even then.”

  “Show me your contract, Freni.”

  “Ach!”

  But much to my surprise, she reached down in her apron and from the depths of that ample bosom pulled a wrinkled sheet of yellow paper.

  “Here. Read it!

  I smoothed the paper on a small patch of unclaimed counter. The contact was written in standard legal gobbledygook, but sure enough, near the bottom of the page it read, “In the event that I, James Boyd Anderson, am in any way incapacitated, and/or in the event that George Grayson Mitchell, CEO of East Coast Delicacies, is in any way incapacitated, the contest will continue as scheduled."

  “So this means nothing,” I said. “You can’t have a contest with just two judges. It has to be an odd number, in case they disagree.”

  “Gut Himmel!” Freni cried. “Read the rest. It says that if Mr. Anderson is decapitated, the two judges left will appoint a third.”

  “But that’s ridiculous. Who could we possibly appoint, and what if Ms. Benedict and I can’t even agree on that?”

  “You’ll find someone,” Freni said firmly.

  “But—”

  Freni grabbed my wrist and pulled me to the far corner of the kitchen.

  “You want there should be more trouble, Magdalena?” Freni grunted. To her credit, the woman was doing her best to whisper.

  “Of course not.”

  “Melvin wants everyone to stay for more questioning. A bunch of English with nothing for them to do, now that’s trouble.”

  “Agreed. But I can’t just snap my fingers”—I snapped them—“and expect a third judge to show up.”

  As if on cue, my saucy sibling sallied into the room. “Has anyone seen Shnookums’s binky?”

  “Ach! That’s it.”

  Susannah wheeled. “Where?”

  I nabbed a bit of what passed for Susannah’s sleeve. “You, dear. You’ve just been appointed a judge in the East Coast Delicacies one-hundred-thousand-dollar cook-off—that is, unless Marge Benedict has any strenuous objections.”

  “Me? A judge?”

  Normally, one needs to court my sister’s cooperation with a series of small bribes, and if that fails, I have an armory of threats into which I am not above delving. But there was no time for either tactic.

  “Isn’t that great, dear?” I said, my voice dripping with manufactured enthusiasm.

  Susannah shrugged. “Depends. What’s in it for me?”

  “You’ll do it,” I snapped. I was prepared to head straight to the threats if I had to.

  She shrugged again. “Fine. Whatever you say. Just help me to find the binky. My poor little Shnookums is pouting. He thinks his mommykins is just being mean.”

  “That pitiful pooch is pouting over a misplaced pacifier?”

  She peered down into the myriad folds of her outfit. “We’re just as upset as we can be, aren’t we, Shnookums Wookums? Yes, we are, yes we are,” she cooed.

  No doubt Alma, who was watching us from across the room, thought Susannah was certifiably nuts. She would be right, of course. But then again, who isn’t just a little bit off their rocker, at least from another person’s perspective?

  There was only one thing to do at the moment, and that was help Susannah find the lost binky. God forbid the mangy mongrel should try to satisfy his oral cravings elsewhere. Allow me to clarify quickly that this was not a nipple-shaped pacifier, like the kind babies use. This is a tiny rubber bone that has been in Shnookums’s possession since he was a pup.

  I found the tooth-marked toy under Susannah’s dining-room chair. It was the logical place to look, since Susannah feeds Shnookums table scraps, even though she is forbidden to do so under pain of expulsion. Many a guest has watched, intrigued and perplexed, as my sister drops bits of her meager meals down her front to feed the mongrel menace. Most folks are quite unaware that next to my sister’s heart beats another one as small as a thimble. This often comes as a rude surprise to suitors, and has been more effective in running them off than I have been with my broom.

  With the pacifier returned, and the hairy hound happy once more, it was time to turn my attention to more urgent matters. The first thing I did was to retreat to my room, where I prayed for patience and for the Good Lord to curb my tongue. The second thing I did was to call Mr. Anderson at the hospital. He answered after the first ring.

  “Just how valid is this stupid contract?”

  “Ah, Miss Yoder! I was hoping that would be you.”

  “Who else could it be? I can’t imagine that a lowlife like you could have a friend in the world.” I was going to have to pray harder next time.

  “So tell me,
have you made any headway in this investigation of yours? Who’s the culprit? Not that mild-mannered little Gladys, is it? That’s often the case, you know—the one you suspect the least.”

  “I don’t know who it is, and if I did, I wouldn’t give you the pleasure of finding out.”

  “Well, it wasn’t the butler, I can tell you that”—he laughed—“because there isn’t a butler in the bunch. Although Art Strump worked as a headwaiter before he made the decision to go to cooking school.”

  “Stop it! I didn’t call to gossip about my guests. I want to know if that silly piece of paper they all signed is valid.”

  “Isn’t that what your attorney is for?”

  He was right, of course. Unfortunately, I don’t have a regular attorney. Bill Zigler, who probated my parents’ estate, and subsequently drew up my will, died six years ago of a heart attack suffered on a golf course. Sure, I’ve gotten into some scrapes since then, but somehow I’ve always managed to get myself out. With Bill’s passing there is only one attorney left in Hernia, a corpulent, mealy-mouthed man who once served as mayor. Stereotypes aside, one can actually smell the chum on Ervin Stackrumple’s breath.

  Sometimes it is necessary to call one’s bluff, which I’m sure you’ll agree is not the same as lying. “My attorney says that this so-called contract isn’t worth making into a paper airplane.”

  “Then your attorney’s a jackass.” What he really said was much worse than that.

  I hung up, prayed some more, and dialed again. “Oh, it’s you,” I said. “I was trying to dial the police. I thought they might be interested in interviewing the mastermind behind George Mitchell’s murder.”

  The truth is, I would have to tell Melvin sooner or later. But since Melvin couldn’t find his way out of a paper bag with the directions printed on the inside with phosphorescent orange crayon, I was planning on later. Let Melvin get all the credit for catching the killer, what did I care? My reward, as every good Mennonite knows, will come in heaven.

  I thought I heard Mr. Anderson gasp. Although given hospital food and his recovering digestive system, it could have been something a whole lot more earthy.

  “But while I have you on the line,” I said, toying with my mouse, “I’ll give you another chance to tell me all about this contract. Every miserable, rotten little detail.”

  “Well, it’s valid, I can tell you that. As a licensed attorney—”

  “You’re a lawyer?” What a stupid oversight. I’d forgotten to smell his breath for fish.

  “All corporations need to have good lawyers on board, and I’m one of the best.”

  “And no doubt one of the most modest. Look, buster, why would George Mitchell want the contest to proceed if he was dead?”

  “I suppose he wouldn’t.”

  “But that’s what is says, ‘In the event that...’ ”

  “Ah, the incapacitation clauses. Clever, eh?”

  “So clever, I haven’t a clue.”

  “Incapacitation does not always equate with death, Miss Yoder, although a case might be made for the other way around.”

  “Come again?”

  “It has broad legal definition. Suppose old Georgie Boy had merely burned his tongue so bad on the first entry that he was unable to sample the second. In that case, a stand-in judge would have to be found.”

  “Why not just cancel?”

  “So as not to disappoint the contestants, of course.”

  “Not to mention you.”

  “Now you’re catching on.”

  “Oh, yes, I get it now. If George Mitchell had somehow survived that blow to the head, or any other attempt at his life, the contest would go on in order to provide his would-be killer another opportunity.” “Exactly. What a smart student.”

  “But George Mitchell is dead. What do you gain by having it play through? Thanks to your tender tum-tum, you’re no longer even one of the judges.”

  “Quite right. However, you now have a seasoned killer on your hands, and a tidy little enticement for he or she to kill again.”

  “The hundred thousand dollars?”

  “Bingo. Aren’t you the least bit curious, Miss Yoder? Don’t you want to see if, and when, the killer will strike again? My God, woman, it’s more interesting than a soap opera, and you don’t have to watch any damn commercials.”

  “You’re despicable,” I hissed, spraying my receiver with spittle. “You make me ashamed to be a human being.”

  “You’re a real hoot, Miss Yoder, anyone ever tell you that? Hey, keep the progress reports coming. Like I said, it’s better than anything on television.”

  I slammed the phone down so hard that I cracked the mouthpiece. This did little, if anything, to improve my mood. You could have fed the lions to this Christian when, a few seconds later, someone knocked timidly at my door.

  “Come in!” I roared.

  The door opened slowly and Alma Cornwater stuck her graying, unruly head in the widening space. “Is this a bad time, Miss Yoder?”

  Aaron once said that I had an antilock temper that I could stop and turn on a dime, if there was something in it for me. I never quite understood his motorcar metaphor, but I am capable of a quick recovery, if I say so myself.

  I waved at Alma. “Come on in, dear. I was just about to come get you. I’d like to chat with you, if I may.”

  Alma doggedly shoved the glasses back into place. “I already went over all that with the police chief. No offense, Miss Yoder, but y’all’s chief makes Barney Fife look like Scotland Yard.”

  Although I had no idea who Barney Fife was, I got the gist of what she meant by the look on her face.

  “Melvin Stoltzfus is socially challenged.” I pointed to a straight-back chair on which I habitually lay out my clothes for the following day. “Have a seat, dear, and tell me how it went.”

  She sat and crossed her pudgy, jeans-clad legs, ankle over knee. “He doesn’t seem to grasp the concept of taking a morning walk.”

  “The man rides his lawnmower when he goes out in the yard to pick up his morning paper. That’s why he and my sister get along so well.”

  “And he doesn’t just ask questions. He accuses.”

  “Makes you want to put your hands around his scrawny neck and throttle him, doesn’t it?”

  She uncrossed her legs. “Please don’t put words in my mouth. Miss Yoder. I did not kill Mr. Mitchell, and I have no intention of killing Chief Stoltzfus.”

  “Of course not, dear! That was just a figure of speech. I was just trying to let you know I understand how frustrating he can be. Mr. Mitchell, on the other hand, was a kind, sweet, considerate man.”

  You can be sure I was watching her eyes as closely as those thick lenses permitted. Alas, she seemed unaffected by my goading.

  “In fact, I don’t believe I’ve ever met a nicer man. Have you?”

  She was as still as Lot’s wife.

  “I was thinking of writing to East Coast Delicacies’ Board of Directors and suggesting they set up a scholarship fund in George Mitchell’s name. If they don’t, I might consider doing it myself. It would be a scholarship for cooks, of course. I hear those cooking schools in Paris cost a lot of money. So, what do you think of that idea?”

  “I think it stinks,” she said calmly. “Mr. Mitchell was a scum-sucking son of a bitch who deserved to die.”

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Now we were getting somewhere. I have long maintained that there is nothing quite as irritating as praise for one’s enemies. Apparently Alma Cornwater was in agreement.

  “Do tell, dear! Only please, don’t swear again.”

  “Look, Miss Yoder, like I said, I didn’t kill Mr. Mitchell, but I sure the heck don’t mind seeing him dead. The man was a thief.”

  “A thief? What kind of thief?”

  “The kind who steals,” she said flatly.

  “You mean, like a car thief, or someone who breaks into homes. Really, dear, that’s going a little far, don’t you think? Mr. Mitchell held t
he controlling stock in a thriving company. I’m sure he was a wealthy man.”

  She pressed a finger to the bridge of her nose and nodded. “And that’s why he’s wealthy—he steals.”

  I sighed. There is not a whole lot a layperson can do about paranoia. Audrey Schlabach was convinced that a blue pickup followed her from Hernia all the way to Peoria, Illinois, when she went to visit her cousin last April. When she got there, her cousin, a much more sensible woman, discovered that Audrey’s teenage son, Tom, had glued a picture of a blue pickup to Audrey’s rearview mirror. It was supposed to be an April Fool’s joke. You’ll be glad to know that Audrey Schlabach now wears glasses.

  “Well, stealing is a sin, dear, and I’m sure the Good Lord will make him account for that in the hereafter.”

  “I could have hired someone to stay with the children and gone back to school a long time ago,” Alma said sadly. “Lot of things might have been different.” I didn’t say anything. What was the point? She obviously believed George Mitchell was at the root of her troubles, and now that he was dead, she couldn’t do him any harm. And I didn’t think for a minute that Alma had killed George Mitchell. I have a gut instinct about these things. Although my gut won’t necessarily tell me who is guilty, it invariably tells me who is not. “And they were my best recipes too.”

  “What?” Even Reverend Schrock doesn’t digress that much in his sermons.

  “The recipes I sent Mr. Mitchell. The ones he turned into low-fat TV dinners and marketed as Smoky Mountain Memories.”

  “Those are your recipes?” With Freni to cook for me, I don’t have much occasion to sample that plethora of frozen entrees now out on the market. I know, the woman quits her job as often as Elizabeth Taylor bails out on marriage, but she always leaves enough food behind to last until she’s cooled off. However, last year when Freni slipped on some ice and was out of commission for over a week, Smoky Mountain Memories saved my life.

  My guests couldn’t compliment the chef enough, although they had a hard time understanding why she couldn’t spare even a minute to come in and take a bow. I had to tell them it was that old Amish thing about pride, which was at least a half-truth. Even Julia, who was a guest at the time, raved about the food.